Page 24 of Came the Closest

“I want to offer to be a nanny for him,” I say quietly, picking at a yellow sprinkle on my donut. “I know he’d have to find a place to live, because Graham’s getting married. But maybe if he knew someone was there to help with Milo he’d be able to wrap his head around the idea. Maybe it wouldn’t feel as overwhelming.”

Maybe I’d have the chance to be someone’s maternal figure, if only for this summer.

I don’t say that last part out loud. My family knows I want to be a mom—my brothers used to tease me that I was their second mom—but I can’t talk about how close I came to it. How when I go to Target, I avoid the children’s section with its floral muslin infant blankets, and I think about what I might’ve named my little girl if I had a daughter. How I hold my nephew and inhale his soft baby scent that fades the older he gets, and I wonder if I might’ve had a son who had blue eyes, too.

Mom studies me carefully, and I think she’s going to comment on it from that perspective. Then she pauses, tucks her lips together, and says, “Offer him the lake house.”

Everything in me stills, including my pulse, for half a second.

The lake house.

Butterflies thrum lightly in my veins.

Ranching didn’t let us escape for lengthy periods of time, but the lake house was part of my life for as long as I can remember. Grandpa always declared it was a crying shame to live only miles from the lake and not wake up with a waterfront view. My second-floor bedroom overlooked the lake, and it had a cushioned window seat.

Dad and I played Go Fish in that window nook every time it stormed. Wind would blow and sleep would evade me, but Dad never failed to be there. He’d tug the curtains firmly closed, sometimes with clothespins for good measure, and I dealt our hands. First, children’s ones with pictures, and as I got older, a plain deck of Bicycle cards.

“Mom, I—”

“I can’t face it yet, Cheyenne,” she says softly, lifting her eyes to mine. “Not without your father. But it shouldn’t sit empty. Not during its glory months, anyway.” Her smile turns a little sad on one side and a little reminiscent on the other. “Who would be there to set off the smoke alarm by making microwave popcorn if it was vacant all summer? And, oh,” she adds wistfully. “Your daddy’s Bronco can’t possibly go an entire season without driving, windows down, and music blaring.”

Emotion burns in the back of my throat. “I wish he was here, Mom. I mean, I know he’s not not here, but I just…”

Want one more summer, is what I want to say. I know it isn’t true. One more day, one more holiday, one more summer—it would never be enough. Not if I knew it was all I had left. Looking back now, twenty-nine years wasn’t enough.

“I know, baby,” she says, nodding, her soft brown eyes filled with tears. I wish they were happy tears from stepping into the lake house for the first time of the year, not because Dad is lying in a hospital, comatose, and Mom can’t face the place she loves so much. “So do I. But he wouldn’t want to see this—us not eating our donuts because we’re sad. Remember what he always said?”

My own lips curve into that half sad, half reminiscent smile. “A happy donut is better than a sad salad, and happy tears are better than sad wishes.”

A watery laugh bubbles in her throat, and she reaches for my hand, her strong fingers squeezing mine. “Happy tears, Cheyenne. Think of those when you think of your father.”

My apartment door today has apparently transformed into a revolving door of guests. Mom leaves at ten till four when Beau texts her, I put another load of laundry in, and when I walk into the kitchen three minutes later, Justin is leaning against my island. Polo slightly rumpled, black rimmed glasses a little crooked, and cheeks bulging with donut. A glass of milk sits on the counter in front of him.

I nudge the fridge door fully closed with my shoulder. “Thanks for knocking.”

“You gave me a spare key. That’s basically an invitation to not knock.” He swallows and eyes me a little too closely. “Do you—” He sniffs the air. “Oh, my gosh, are you wearing perfume?”

“No.” It’s not a lie. At least, not fully. I didn’t spritz myself with real perfume; I just rolled a little on my wrists. “Is there a reason you barged into my apartment?”

Justin shoves the second half of a long john in his mouth. “Do I haf to haf a reathon?”

“Stop talking with your mouth full.”

He grins. “And there she is, folks. Mom Number Two mode, activated.”

“I’m serious, Justin,” I say firmly.

“Wind it up there, Mother Dear,” he teases, smirk dimpling. “Do you possibly want some cheese with that whine?”

“I don’t know why I even bother,” I mutter, grabbing his now empty glass and carrying it to the sink. Unsatisfied, I rinse it and place it in the dishwasher.

His amused eyes follow my every move. “Probably because you love me.”

“That’s questionable.”

“So.” He waits until I look over at him, then sweeps his hand over his body. “Rate the ‘fit on a scale of one to ten. One being, ‘it looks horrible, Justin, why would you wear that in public?’ and ten being ‘oh, my gosh, Justin, why don’t you wear that more often?’”

“The ‘fit?” I run a dish rag over the glass stovetop. “What are you, an Instagram influencer?”

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